


Husband

by KyeS (FancyTrinkets)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bittersweet, Love, M/M, Mage Trevelyan (Dragon Age), POV Dorian Pavus, Pavelyan - Freeform, Redcliffe (Dragon Age), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28507425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyTrinkets/pseuds/KyeS
Summary: This unpleasant southern lifestyle is starting to get to him.Two moments in time.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	Husband

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

And, yes, that does mean Alexius — recently uninstalled from Redcliffe and taken into custody by the Inquisition and its Herald. But here, in this travesty of a rented room, Dorian is feeling mightily fallen, as well.

 _Fallen from what?_ one might ask. Well, that should be obvious. From favor, from grace, from family and country, and — worst of all — fallen away from every reasonable standard of personal hygiene.

(This unpleasant southern lifestyle is starting to get to him.)

By the dim light, filtered in from one small window, he gathers his belongings — coin, clothing, two books, an extra pair of boots, and a few supplies — and stows them all neatly in a finely-worked leather satchel. He takes one last look around the room and sighs.

It's a miserable place and he won't miss it. 

Creaking floorboards, dark from too many layers of soot and varnish. A perpetual draft from the window. On the bed, the roughest possible sheets. Made of canvas? Possibly. No dressing table, no mirror, and certainly no such thing as a bath.

The room did keep him safe, however. He'll give it that. 

He needed somewhere to lie low while he kept an eye on Redcliffe. A quaint little inn in the middle of rustic nowhere was his best and only choice. He's not really sure how the place stays in business. For several weeks he's been its only guest. But he keeps to himself, doesn't ask questions, and the couple that runs the place has more or less left him alone. 

They don't know he's a mage and they certainly don't know from whence he hails. 

Once, in passing, the woman did mention his foreign clothes, but by that she meant Orlais — and presumed he was some lesser noble out of Val Royeaux, sent away by his family to stay out of trouble while a scandal died down. Bizarre, but apparently that happens often enough around here that he wouldn't have been the first.

"Last spring it was the nephew of the Vicomte de Melun," she told him. "Two summers before that, the stepson of Comte Boisvert."

"Fascinating," he said, but offered no further clues as to his background and purpose — thus leaving her to devise whatever salacious fiction about him she most preferred.

No, he won't miss this place.

Chances are, the Inquisition's camp at Haven won't be much better. But he's made up his mind. He's said goodbye to Felix, perhaps the only real friend he has left, and he likely won't see him ever again.

Yes, it's very sad. Tears all around. 

But that's the point, isn't it? Personal losses don't mean anything. Not right now when the fate of the entire world is in flux. Everyone has a Felix of their own — a dear friend, a younger brother, or any sort of loved one at all. Everyone is going to lose people they care about unless somebody stands up to do something.

So that's what he's doing. He's standing up. He's joining the only group that seems to have even half a chance of closing the hole in the sky and defeating this mysterious Elder One. He's joining because it's the right thing to do. It has nothing to do with the fact that the Herald of Andraste is a powerful, talented battlemage who kept flashing smiles and stealing glances.

(Oh, yes, even Felix pointed it out. "He's your type, Dorian — handsome, confident, can't take his eyes off you.")

So, yes, it seems this Trevelyan is a man whose gaze lingers on beautiful men. If anything, that's a liability instead of a selling point. That could make things complicated, difficult, and perhaps even dangerous. Not to get too far ahead of himself, of course, but this Herald could turn out to be everything Dorian wants and isn't looking for.

But he doesn't have to stand around here gawking and wasting time. He can ponder all this just as well on the road. He has a horse tied up outside. He'll ride fast to try and catch up with the Inquisition. They left at dawn this morning, which gives them half a day's headstart.

He sets his room key and the house key on a shelf by the outer door. He won't ever need to see the inside of this place again. He's reaching for the door latch when a man's voice stops him. The innkeeper watches from the kitchen, butcher's knife in hand.

"So, you're a mage."

For weeks Dorian's been cautious, meticulously so. And today, he's simply tired. His friend is dying, his former mentor has become the stupidest of villains, and he doesn't much feel like hiding himself from peasants and their backwards ideas. So his staff is there, in plain sight, leaning against the fence where the horse is tied. 

"I am," he says.

"Did you steal that horse?" 

"No."

"You didn't have it before. Where'd you come by it?"

"Redcliffe," Dorian says.

The man wipes the knife on his apron, leaving bright red streaks of blood.

"Are you one of them?" he asks. "Those Redcliffe mages doing all manner of unnatural spells?"

Dorian sighs. He's had enough foolishness for one lifetime. 

"If I'd wanted to hurt you, you and your wife would be weeks dead already."

The innkeeper is a thickly built man, not so young, but strong. And capable with that knife — judging by the good cuts of meat he carves up for the wife to cook. (The food they serve is surprisingly not terrible.) And still, the man wouldn't stand a chance if he decided to attack. Dorian would strike him dead where he stands.

He seems to understand that as well, and he sets the knife down.

"Well. Thanks for not doing that," he says.

Dorian nods. He's about to leave without another word when he's stopped by his own baffling impulse to reassure the man. 

_Pavus, just go_ , he thinks. 

But instead he says, "No need to worry about Redcliffe. The Inquisition was there last night. We cleared all those mages out and put an end to what they were plotting."

"Inquisition?" the man says, a spark of recognition in his eyes. The smile on his face makes him look almost handsome. "You can't be... Andraste's Herald?"

"Me? No, I'm not him. He's a... a friend." 

It's not the right word. He's barely met Trevelyan, after all. But it's the only word that springs to mind. And somehow it already feels truthful. _He's a friend._

"And a mage like you," the man says.

"Not exactly like me, but yes. He is a mage."

"Then Maker bless you." 

In a display of horrifyingly earnest gratitude, the innkeeper presses one blood-stained hand to his chest, leaving a bloody imprint above his heart. 

"Don't matter to us what Circle you left," he says. "If you're a friend to the Chosen, you're a friend to us here."

"Of course."

"And just so's you know," the man adds. "About Betta? She's lived here ten years — since the Blight took her family, Maker keep them. But she's not my wife. She's my husband's sister."

"Your– your _husband_?"

"He's off in Denerim, selling furs. Should be home in a week or two. Shame you couldn't meet him."

"Ah, of course."

He feels like he's been punched, but manages to add, "It's been a pleasure."

It hasn't. 

Nothing about this place has been remotely pleasurable. And yet at this point he's just saying words, babbling forth with a polite enough farewell. Then he's opening doors, and heading out to untie his horse and be gone, down the road, never to return. Never to even think about this poor, stupid, backwards peasant man whose life is so unpleasant... 

And yet. 

His husband will be home in a week or two.

* * *

Dorian hasn't thought about that afternoon since it happened. But somehow it's still a vivid memory, despite the year that's gone by. 

The sadness gleams bright and runs red, cutting deep to the bone.

He's cold. He's always cold here. But he's disregarding all that to stand on the balcony of the Inquisitor's quarters and look out over the mountains as the sun goes down. 

"You seem quiet today," Trevelyan says. 

He comes up close, the warmth of his chest pressing in against Dorian's back.

"You aren't thinking about leaving again, are you? My love, I would miss you so much."

"You have to understand," Dorian says, "I _will_ have to go."

Once, he might have left it at that. But the impulse to reassure just keeps on growing stronger.

"But for you I will always come back."

He turns away from the view of the mountains and into the warmth of Trevelyan's embrace. 

**Author's Note:**

> I just always wondered where Dorian went when he wasn't at Redcliffe. So I dreamed this up.


End file.
